sac 


^  ^mm^^ 


"  A  faiiy  vision 
Ot  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element. 
That  in  tlie  colours  of  the  rainbow  live — 
And  play  in  the  plighted  clouds."™..itfi7<o/i. 


SECOND  EDITION. 


NEW- YORK : 

PUBLlSnKD  BY  WILEY  &  HALSTED,  No.  3,  WALL-STREET. 

William  Graitan,  Printer. 

1821. 


Southern  District  of  I^ew-¥orlc,  s!. 

BE  IT  REMEMBERED,  That  on  the  fifth  day  of  March,  in  the  forty-fifth  year  of  the 
Independence  of  the  United  States  of  America,  WILEY  k  HALSTED,  of  the  said  Dis- 
trict, have  deposited  in  this  Office,  the  title  of  a  Book,  the  right  whereof  they  claim  at 
proprietors,  in  the  words  following-,  to  wit  : 

"  Fanny.  '  A  fairy  vision 

Of  some  gay  creatures  of  the  element, 
That  in  the  colours  of  liie  rainbow  live — 
And  play  in  the  plighted  clouds-'    Milton.    Second  edition." 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled,  "  An  Act  for  the 
"  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the 
"  authors  and  proprietors  of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned;"  And  also, 
to  an  Act,  entitled, "  An  Act,  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled,  an  Act  for  the  encou- 
"  ragement  of  learning,  by  securing  the  copies  of  maps,  charts,  and  books,  to  the  authors 
"  and  proprietors  of  such"  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned,  and  extending  the 
"  benelits  thereof  to  the  arts  of  designing,  engraving,  and  etching  historical  and  other 
"  prints." 

G.  L.  THOMPSON, 
(Jlerk  of  the  Southern  District  of  New- York. 


WAM^W, 


Fanny  was  younger  once  than  she  is  now, 
And  prettier  of  course  :  I  do  not  mean 

To  say,  that  there  are  wrinkles  on  her  brow; 
Yet,  to  be  candid,  she  is  past  eighteen — 

Perhaps  past  twenty — but  the  girl  is  shy 

About  her  age,  and  God  forbid  that  I 

n. 

Should  get  myself  in  trouble  by  revealing 
A  secret  of  this  sort ;  I  have  too  long 

Lov'd  pretty  women  with  a  poet's  feeling, 
And  when  a  boy,  in  day  dream  and  in  song, 

Have  knelt  me  down  and  worshipp'd  them :  alas 

They  never  thank'd  me  for't — but  let  that  pass. 


III. 


I've  felt  full  many  a  heart-ach  in  my  day, 
At  the  mere  rustling  of  a  muslin  gown, 

And  caught  some  dreadful  colds,  I  blush  to  say, 
While  shivering  in  the  shade  of  beauty's  frown. 

They  say  her  smiles  are  sunbeams — it  may  be — 

But  never  a  sunbeam  would  she  throw  on  me. 


IV. 


But  Fanny's  is  an  eye  that  you  may  gaze  on 
For  half  an  hour,  without  the  slightest  harm ; 

E'en  when  she  wore  her  smiling  summer  face  on 
There  was  but  little  danger,  and  the  charm 

That  youth  and  wealth  once  gave,  has  bade  farewell. 

Hers  is  a  sad,  sad  tale — 'tis  mine  its  woes  to  tell. 


Her  father  kept,  some  fifteen  years  ago, 
A  retail  dry-good  shop  in  Chatham-street, 

And  nurs'd  his  little  earnings,  sure  though  slow. 
Till  having  muster'd  wherewithal  to  meet 

The  gaze  of  the  great  world,  he  breath'd  the  air 

Of  Pearl-street — and  set  up  in  Hanover-square. 


VI. 


Money  is  power,  'tis  said — I  never  tried; 

For  I'm  a  poet — ^and  bank-notes  to  me 
Are  curiosities,  as  closely  eyed, 

V\Tiene'er  I  get  them,  as  a  stone  would  be, 
Toss'd  from  the  moon  on  Doctor  Mitchill's  table, 
Or  classic  brick-bat  from  the  tower  of  Babel. 


But  he  I  sing  of  well  has  known  and  felt 
That  money  hath  a  power  and  a  dominion ; 

For  when  in  Chatham-street  the  good  man  dwelt, 
No  one  would  give  a  sous  for  his  opinion. 

And  though  his  neighbours  were  extremely  civil, 

Yet,  on  the  whole,  they  thought  him — a  poor  devil. 

vni. 

A  decent  kind  of  person;  one  whose  head 

Was  not  of  brains  particularly  full ; 
It  was  not  known  that  he  had  ever  said 

Any  thing  worth  repeating — 'twas  a  dull, 
Good,  honest  man — what  Paulding's  muse  would  call 
A  "  cabbage  head," — but  he  excelled  them  all 


IX. 


In  that  most  noble  of  the  sciences, 

The  art  of  making  money,  and  he  found 

The  zeal  for  quizzing  him  grew  less  and  less, 
As  he  grew  richer;  till  upon  the  ground 

Of  Pearl-street,  treading  proudly  in  the  might 

And  majesty  of  wealth,  a  sudden  light 


Flash'd  like  the  midnight  lightning  on  the  eyes 
Of  all  who  knew  him ;  brilliant  traits  of  mind, 

And  genius,  clear  and  countless  as  the  dies 
Upon  the  peacock's  plumage ;  taste  refin'd, 

Wisdom  and  wit,  were  his — perhaps  much  more. 

'Twas  strange  they  had  not  found  it  out  before. 


XI. 


In  this  quick  transformation,  it  is  true 

That  cash  had  no  small  share ;  but  there  were  still 
Some  other  causes,  which  then  gave  a  new 

Impulse  to  head  and  heart,  and  join'd  to  fill 
His  brain  with  knowledge ;  for  there  first  he  met 
The  editor  of  the  New- York  Gazette, 


xn. 


The  sapient  Mr.  L**g.     The  world  of  hhn  -    -  'JJ^J^ 

Knows  much,  yet  not  one  half  so  much  as  he 
Knows  of  the  world.     Up  to  its  very  brim 

The  goblet  of  his  mind  is  sparkling  free 
With  lore  and  learning.     Had  proud  Sheba's  queen. 
In  all  her  bloom  and  beauty,  but  have  seen 


xin. 


This  modern  Solomon,  the  Israelite, 

Earth's  monarch  as  he  was,  had  never  won  her. 
He  would  have  hang'd  himself  for  very  spite, 

And  she,  blest  woman,  might  have  had  the  honour 
Of  some  neat  "  paragraphs" — worth  all  the  lays 
That  Judah's  minstrel  warbled  in  her  praise. 


XIV. 


Her  star  arose  too  soon  ;  but  that  which  sway'd 
Th'  ascendant  at  our  merchant's  natal  hour 

Was  bright  with  better  destiny — its  aid 
Led  him  to  pluck  within  the  classic  bower 

Of  bulletins,  the  blossoms  of  true  knowledge; 

And  L**g  supplied  the  loss  of  school  and  college, 
2 


10 


XXV 


For  there  he  learn'd  the  news  some  minutes  sooner 
Than  others  could;  and  to  distinguish  well 

The  different  signals,  whether  ship  or  schooner, 
Hoisted  at  Staten-Island  ;  and  to  tell 

The  change  of  wind,  and  of  his  neighbour's  fortunes, 

And,  best  of  all — he  there  learn'd  self-importance. 

XXVI. 

Nor  were  these  all  the  advantages  derived 
From  change  of  scene ;  for  near  his  domicil, 

He  of  the  pair  of  polish'd  lamps  then  liv'd, 
And  in  mj  hero's  promenades,  at  will, 

Could  he  behold  them  burning— and  their  flame 

Kindled  within  his  breast  the  love  of  fame, 

XXVII. 

And  politics,  and  country ;  the  pure  glow 
Of  patriot  ardour,  and  the  consciousness 

That  talents  such  as  his  might  well  bestow 
A  lustre  on  the  city,  she  would  bless 

His  name;  and  that  some  service  should  be  done  her, 

He  pledged  "  life,  fortune,  and  his  sacred  honour." — 


11 


xvm 


And  when  the  sounds  of  music  and  of  mirth, 

Bursting  from  Fashion's  groups  assembled  there, 

Were  heard,  as  round  their  lone  plebeian  hearth 
Fanny  and  he  were  seated — he  would  dare 

To  whisper  fondly,  that  the  time  might  come, 

When  he  and  his  could  give  as  brilliant  Routs  at  home. 


XIX. 


And  oft  would  Fanny  near  that  mansion  linger, 
When  the  cold  winter  moon  was  high  in  heaven, 

And  trace  out,  by  the  aid  of  fancy's  finger, 
Cards  for  some  future  party,  to  be  given 

When  she,  in  turn,  should  be  a  6e//e,  and  they 

Had  lived  their  little  hour,  and  pass'd  away. 


XX. 


There  are  some  happy  moments  in  this  lone 
And  desolate  world  of  ours,  that  well  repay 

The  toil  of  struggling  through  it,  and  atone 
For  many  a  long,  sad  night  and  weary  day. 

They  come  upon  the  mind  like  some  wild  air 

Of  distant  music,  when  we  know  not  where. 


12 


XXI. 


Or  whence,  the  sounds  are  brought  from,  and  their  pow'r, 
Though  brief,  is  boundless.     That  far,  future  home, 

Oft  dreamed  of,  sparkles  near — its  rose-wreath'd  bower, 
And  cloudless  skies  before  us;  we  become 

Chang'd  on  the  instant — all  gold  leaf  and  gilding; — 

This  is,  in  vulgar  phrase,  call'd  castle  building. 

XXII. 

But  these,  like  sunset  clouds,  fade  soon  •,  'tis  vain 

To*  bid  them  linger  longer,  or  to  ask 
On  what  day  they  intend  to  call  again  ; 

And,  surely,  'twere  a  philosophic  task, 
Worthy  a  M*****ll,  in  his  hours  of  leisure. 
To  find  some  means  to  summon  them  at  pleasure. 

xxin. 

There  certainly  are  powers  of  doing  this, 

In  some  degree  at  least — for  instance,  drinking. 

Champagne  will  bathe  the  heart  awhile  in  bliss, 
And  keep  the  head  a  little  time  from  thinking 

Of  cares  or  creditors — the  best  wine  in  town, 

You'll  get  from  Lynch — the  cash  must  be  paid  down. 


13 


xxiy. 


But  if  you  are  a  bachelor,  like  me, 

And  spurn  all  chains,  even  though  made  of  roses, 
I'd  recommend  segars — there  is  a  free 

And  happy  spirit,  that,  unseen,  reposes 
On  the  dim  shadowy  clouds,  that  hover  o'er  you, 
When  smoking  quietly  with  a  warm  fire  before  you. 

XXV. 

Dear  to  the  exile  is  his  native  land, 

In  memory's  twilight  beauty  seen  afar  : 
Dear  to  the  broker  is  a  note  of  hand, 

Collaterally  secured — the  polar  star 
Is  dear  at  midnight  to  the  sailor's  eyes, 
And  dear  are  Bristed's  volumes  at  "  half  price;" 

XXVI. 

But  dearer  far  to  me  each  fairy  minute. 

Spent  in  that  fond  forgetfulness  of  grief ; 
There  is  an  airy  web  of  magic  in  it, 

As  in  Othello's  pocket  handkerchief, 
Veiling  the  wrinkles  on  the  brow  of  sorrow, 
The  gathering  gloom  to-day — the  thunder  cloud  to-morrow. 


14 


XXVII. 


And  these  are  innocent  thoughts — a  man  may  sit 
Upon  a  bright  throne  of  his  own  creation  ; 

Untortured  by  the  ghastly  sprites  that  flit 
Around  the  many,  whose  exalted  station 

Has  been  attained  by  means  'twere  pain  to  hint  on, 

Just  for  the  rhyme's  sake — instance  Mr.  C*****n. 

xxvui. 

He  struggled  hard,  but  not  in  vain,  and  breathes 
The  mountain  air  at  last ;  but  there  are  others 

Who  strove,  like  him,  to  win  the  glittering  wreaths 
Of  power,  his  early  partisans  and  brothers, 

That  linger  yet  in  dust  from  whence  they  sprung, 

Unhonour'd  and  unpaid,  though,  luckily,  unhung. 

XXIX. 

Twas  theirs  to  fill  with  gas  the  huge  balloon 
Of  party  ;  and  they  hop'd,  when  it  arose, 

To  soar  like  eagles  in  the  blaze  of  noon, 
Above  the  gaping  crowd  of  friends  and  foes. 

Alas !  like  Guille's  car,  it  soar'd  without  them, 

And  left  them  with  a  mob  to  jeer  and  flout  them. 


IS 


XXX. 


Though  Fanny's  moonlight  dreams  were  sweet  as  those 
I've  dwelt  so  long  upon — they  were  more  stable  ; 

Hers  were  not  "  castles  in  the  air"  that  rose 
Bas'd  upon  nothing  ;  for  her  sire  was  able, 

As  well  she  knew,  to  buy  out  the  one  half 

Of  Fashion's  glittering  train,  that  nightly  quaff 

XXXI. 

Wine,  wit,  and  wisdom,  at  a  midnight  Rout, 
From  dandy  coachmen,  whose  exquisite  grin 

And  ruffian  lounge  Hash  brilliantly  without, 
Down  to  their  brother  dandies  ranged  within. 

Gay  as  the  Brussels  carpeting  they  tread  on. 

And  sapient  as  the  oystei's  they  are  fed  on. 

XXXII. 

And  Rumour — (she's  a  famous  liar,  yet 
'Tis  wonderful  how  easy  we  believe  her,) 

Had  whisper'd  he  was  rich,  and  all  he  met 

In  Wall-street,  nodded,  smiled,  and  tipped  the  beaver ; 

All,  from  Mr.  Gelston,  the  Collector, 

Down  to  the  broker,  and  the  bank  director. 


16 


XXXIII. 

A  few  brief  years  pass'd  over,  and  his  rank 
Among  the  worthies  of  that  street  was  fix'd  : 

He  had  become  director  of  a  bank, 
And  six  insurance  offices,  and  mix'd 

Famiharly,  as  one  among  his  peers, 

With  grocers,  dry-good  merchants,  auctioneers. 

XXXIV. 

Brokers  of  all  grades — stock  and  pawn — and  Jews 
Of  all  religions,  who  at  noon-day  form, 

On  'Change,  that  brotherhood  the  moral  Muse 
Delights  in,  where  the  heart  is  pure  and  warm. 

And  each  exerts  his  intellectual  force 

To  cheat  his  neighbour — honestly  of  course. 

XXXV. 

And  there  he  shone  a  planetary  star, 

Circled  around  by  lesser  orbs,  whose  beams 

From  his  were  borrow'd.     The  simile  is  not  far 
From  truth — for  many  bosom  friends,  it  seems, 

Did  borrow  of  him,  and  sometimes  forget 

To  pay — indeed  they  have  not  paid  him  yet. 


17 


XXXVI. 


But  these  he  deem'd  as  trifles,  when  each  mouth 

Was  open  in  his  praise,  and  plaudits  rose 
Upon  his  wilUng  ear,  "  hke  the  sweet  south 

Upon  a  bank  of  violets,"  from  those 
Who  knew  his  talents,  virtues,  and  so  forth  ; 
That  is — knew  how  much  money  he  was  worth. 

XXXVII. 

Alas  !  poor  human  nature ;  had  he  been 

But  satisfied  with  this,  his  golden  days 
Their  setting  hour  of  darkness  had  not  seen, 

And  he  might  still  (in  the  mercantile  phrase) 
Be  living  "in  good  order  and  condition;" 
But  he  was  ruined  by  that  jade  Ambition, 

XXXVIII. 

"  That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds," 

Whose  spell,  like  whiskey,  your  true  patriot  liquor, 
To  politics  the  lofty  hearts  inclines 

(^  r  ^  •• 

Of  all,  from  C*****n  down  to  the  bill  sticker  ^-^'"^''^C::^^ 

Of  a  ward-meeting.     She  came  slyly  creeping 
To  his  bed  side,  where  he  lay  snug  and  sleeping. 


18 


XXXIX. 


Her  brow  was  turban'd  with  a  bucktail  wreath, 
A  broach  of  terrapin  her  bosom  wore, 

Tompkins'  letter  was  just  seen  beneath 
Her  arm,  and  in  her  hand  on  high  she  bore 

A  National  Advocate — Pell's  polite  Review 

Lay  at  her  feet — 'twas  pommell'd  black  and  blue. 


XL. 


She  was  in  fashion's  elegant  undress, 

Muffled  from  throat  to  ankle ;  and  her  hair 

Was  all  "  en  papillotes,'^^  each  auburn  tress 
Prettily  pinn'd  apart.     You  well  might  swear 

She  was  no  beauty;  yet,  when  made  up,  ready 

For  visitors,  'twas  quite  another  lady. 


XLl. 


Since  that  wise  pedant,  Johnson,  was  in  fashion, 
Manners  have  chang'd  as  well  as  moons ;  and  he 

Would  fret  himself  once  more  into  a  passion, 
Should  he  return,  (which  God  forbid!)  and  see, 

How  strangely  from  his  standard  Dictionary, 

The  meaning  of  some  words  is  made  to  vary. 


19 


XLII. 


For  instance,  an  undress  at  present  means 

The  wearing  a  pelisse,  a  shawl,  or  so; 

Or  any  thing  you  please,  in  short,  that  screens 

The  face,  and  hides  the  form  from  top  to  toe  ; 
Of  power  to  brave  a  quizzing-glass,  or  storm — 
'Tis  worn  in  summer,  when  the  weather's  warm. 

XLIII. 

But  a  full  dress  is  for  a  winter's  night. 

The  most  genteel  is  made  of  "woven  air;" 
That  kind  of  classic  cobweb,  soft  and  light. 

Which  Lady  Morgan's  Ida  used  to  wear. 
And  ladies,  this  aerial  manner  dress'd  in, 
Look  Eve-like,  angel-like,  and  interesting. 


But  Miss  Ambition  was,  as  I  was  saying, 
"  Diskabillee'^ — His  bed-side  tripping  near. 

And,  gently,  on  his  nose  her  fingers  laying, 
She  roar'd  out  Tammany!  in  his  frighted  ear. 

The  potent  word  awoke  him  from  his  nap, 

And  then  she  vanish'd,  whisp'ring  verbum  sop. 


20 


XLV. 


The  last  words  were  beyond  his  comprehensioH. 

For  he  had  left  oflf  schooling,  ere  the  Greek 
Or  Latin  classics  claimed  his  mind's  attention : 

Besides,  he  often  had  been  heard  to  speak 
Contemptuously  of  all  that  sort  of  knowledge, 
Taught  so  profoundly  in  Columbia  College. 

XL  VI. 

We  owe  the  ancients  something.     You  have  read 
Their  works,  no  doubt — at  least  in  a  translation : 

Yet  there  was  argument  in  what  he  said. 
I  scorn  equivocation  or  evasion, 

And  own,  it  must,  in  candour,  be  confest, 

They  were  an  ignorant  set  of  men  at  best. 

XLVII. 

'Twas  their  misfortune  to  be  born  to  soon 
By  centuries,  and  in  the  wrong  place  too : 

They  never  saw  a  steam-boat,  or  balloon. 
Velocipede,  or  Quarterly  Review; 

Or  wore  a  pair  of  Baehr's  black  satin  breeches, 

Or  read  an  Almanac,  or  C*****n's  Speeches. 


2J 


XL  VIII. 


In  short,  in  every  thing  we  far  outshine  'em. — 
Art,  science,  taste,  and  talent;  and  a  stroll 

Thro'  this  enhghten'd  city  would  refine  'em 
More  than  ten  years'  hard  study  of  the  whole 

Their  genius  has  produced  of  rich  and  rare — 

God  bless  the  Corporation  and  the  Mayor! 


In  sculpture,  we've  a  grace  the  Grecian  master, 
Blushing,  had  own'd  his  purest  model  lacks : 

We've  Mr.  B****t  in  the  best  of  plaster, 
The  witch  of  Endor  in  the  best  of  wax, 

Besides  the  head  of  Franklin  on  the  roof 

Of  Mr.  L**g,  both  jest  and  weather  proof. 


And  on  our  City  Hall  a  .Justice  stands ; 

A  neater  form  was  never  made  of  board, 
Holding  majestically  in  her  hands 

A  pair  of  steelyards  and  a  wooden  sword : 
And  looking  down  with  complaisant  civility — 
Emblem  of  dignity  and  durability. 


22 


LI. 


In  painting,  we  have  Trumbull's  proud  chef  d^auvre, 
Blending  in  one  the  funny  and  the  fine : 

His  "  Independence"  will  endure  for  ever, 
And  so  will  Mr.  Allen's  lottery  sign ; 

And  all  that  grace  the  Academy  of  Arts, 

From  Dr.  Hosack's  face  to  Bonaparte's. 

Lil. 

In  architecture,  our  unrivall'd  skill 

Cullen's  magnesian  shop  has  loudly  spoken 

To  an  admiring  world ;  and  better  still 
Is  Gautier's  fairy  palace  at  Hoboken. 

In  music,  we've  the  Euterpian  Society, 

And  amateurs,  a  wonderful  variety. 

LIII. 

In  physic,  we  have  F*****s  and  M'N***n, 

Fam'd  for  long  heads,  short  lectures,  and  long  bills ; 

And  Q********ss  and  others,  who  from  heaven 
Were  rained  upon  us  in  a  shower  of  pills ; 

They'd  beat  the  deathless  Esculapius  hollow, 

And  make  a  starveling  druggist  of  Apollo. 


23 


LIV. 


And  who,  that  ever  slumber'd  at  the  Forum, 

But  owns  the  first  of  orators  we  claim ; 
Cicero  would  have  bow'd  the  knee  before  'em — 

And  for  law  eloquence,  we've  Dr.  G****m.        -^.ajs^^^*-^ 
Compared  with  him,  their  Justins  and  Quintillians 
Had  dwindled  into  second-rate  civilians. 


LV. 

For  purity  and  chastity  of  style, 

There's  Pell's  preface,  and  puffs  by  Home  and  Waite. 
For  penetration  deep,  and  learned  toil. 

And  all  that  stamps  an  author  truly  great. 
Have  we  not  Bristed's  ponderous  tomes  ?  a  treasure 
For  any  man  of  patience  and  of  leisure. 


LVI. 

Oxonian  Bristed!  many  a  foolscap  page 
He,  in  his  time,  hath  written,  and  moreover 

(What  few  will  do  in  this  degenerate  age) 
Hath  read  his  own  works,  as  you  may  discover 

By  counting  his  quotations  from  himself — 

You'll  find  the  books  on  any  auction  shelf. 


24 


LVII. 


I  beg  Great  Britain's  pardon;  'tis  not  meant 
To  claim  this  Oxford  scholar  as  our  own : 

That  he  was  shipp'd  off  here  to  represent 
Her  literature  among  us,  is  well  known ; 

And  none  could  better  fill  the  lofty  station 

Of  Learning's  envoy  from  the  British  nation. 

LVIII. 

We  fondly  hope,  that  he  will  be  respected 
a4t  home,  and  soon  obtain  a  place  or  pension. 

We  should  regret  to  see  him  live  neglected, 

Like  Ashe,  and  Moore,  and  others  we  could  mention; 

Who  paid  us  friendly  visits  to  abuse 

Our  country,  and  find  food  for  the  Reviews. 

LIX. 

But  to  return. — The  Heliconian  waters 

Are  sparkling  in  their  native  fount  no  more. 

And  after  years  of  wandering,  the  nine  daughters 
Of  poetry,  have  found  upon  our  shore 

A  happier  home,  and  on  their  sacred  shrines 

Glow  in  immortal  ink,  the  polish'd  lines 


25 


LX. 


Names  hallow'd  by  their  reader's  sweetest  smile; 
And  who  that  reads  at  all,  has  read  them  not  ? 

"  That  bhnd  old  man  of  Scio's  rocky  isle," 
Homer,  was  well  enough ;  but  would  he  ever 
Have  written,  think  ye,  the  Backwoodsman?  never. 


LXI. 


Alas !  for  Paulding — I  regret  to  see 

In  such  a  stanza  one  whose  giant  powers. 

Seen  in  their  native  element,  would  be 
Known  to  a  future  age,  the  pride  of  ours. 

There  is  none  breathing  who  can  better  wield 

The  battle-axe  of  satire.     On  its  field 

Lxn. 

The  wreath  he  fought  for  he  has  bravely  won. 

Long  be  its  laurel  green  around  his  brow! — 
It  is  too  true,  I'm  somewhat  fond  of  fun 

And  jesting;  but  for  once  I'm  serious  now. 
Why  is  he  sipping  weak  Castalian  dews  ? 
The  muse  has  damn'd  him — let  him  damn  the  muse. 
4 


26 


But  to  return  once  more :  the  ancients  fought 

Some  tolerable  battles.     Marathon 
Is  still  a  theme  for  high  and  holy  thought, 

And  many  a  poet's  lay.     We  linger  on 
The  page  that  tells  us  of  the  brave  and  free, 
And  reverence  thy  name,  unmatched  Thermopylae. 

LXIV. 

And  there  were  spirited  troops  in  other  days — ■ 
The  Roman  legion  and  the  Spartan  band. 

And  S*******t's  gallant  corps,  the  Iron  Grays- 
Soldiers  who  met  their  foeman  hand  to  hand, 

Or  swore,  at  least,  to  meet  them  undismay'd; 

Yet  what  were  these  to  General  L****t's  brigade 

LXV. 

Of  veterans?  nursed  in  that/ree  school  of  glory, 
The  New- York  State  Militia.     From  Bellevuc, 

E'en  to  the  Battery  flagstaff,  the  proud  story 
Of  their  manoeuvres  at  the  last  Review 

Has  rang;  and  C*****n's  "order"  told  afar 

He  never  led  a  better  corps  to  war. 


27 

Lxvr. 

What,  Egypt,  was  thy  magic,  to  the  tricks 

Of  Mr.  Charles,  Judge  S*****r,  or  V*n  B****n : 

The  first  with  cards,  the  last  in  politics, 

A  conjuror's  fame  for  years  have  been  securing. 

And  who  would  now  the  ancient  dramas  read 

When  he  can  get  "  Wall-street,"  by  Mr.  Mead. 

LXVII, 

I  might  say  much  about  our  letter'd  men. 

Those  "  grave  and  reverend  seigniors,"  who  compose 
Our  learn'd  societies — but  here  my  pen 

Stops  short;  for  they,  themselves,  the  rumour  goes, 
The  exclusive  privilege  by  patent  claim, 
Of  trumpeting  (as  the  phrase  is)  their  own  fame. 

LXVIII. 

And,  therefore,  1  am  silent.     It  remains 
To  bless  the  hour  the  Corporation  took  it 

Into  their  heads,  to  give  the  rich  in  brains, 
The  worn-out  mansion  of  the  poor  in  pocket. 

Once  "the  old  alms  house,"  now  a  school  of  wisdom. 

Sacred  to  S*****r's  shells  and  Dr.  G*****m. 


28 


LXIX. 


But  whither  am  I  wandering?  The  esteem 
I  bear  "  this  fairy  city  of  the  heart," 

To  me  a  dear  enthusiastic  theme, 

Has  forc'd  me,  all  unconsciously,  to  part 

Too  long  from  him,  the  hero  of  my  story. 

Where  was  he  ? — waking  from  his  dream  of  glory. 


LXX. 


And  she,  the  lady  of  his  dream,  had  fled. 

And  left  him  somewhat  puzzled  and  confused. 

He  understood,  however,  half  she  said; 
And  that  is  quite  as  much  as  we  are  used 

To  comprehend,  or  fancy  worth  repeating. 

In  speeches  heard  at  any  public  meeting. 

LXXI. 

And  the  next  evening  found  him  at  the  Hall ; 

There  he  was  welcom'd  by  the  cordial  hand, 
And  met  the  warm  and  friendly  grasp  of  all 

Who  take,  like  watchmen,  there,  their  nightly  stand. 
A  ring,  as  in  a  boxing  match,  procuring. 
To  bet  on  C*****n,  T******s,  or  V*n  B****n. 


.^^' 


29 


LXXII. 


'Twas  a  propitious  moment; — for  awhile, 
The  waves  of  party  were  at  rest.     Upon 

Each  complacent  brow  was  gay  good  humour's  smile; 
And  there  was  much  of  wit,  and  jest,  and  pun, 

And  high  amid  the  circle,  in  great  glee. 

Sat  Croaker's  old  acquaintance,  J**n  T****e. 

LXXIII. 

His  jokes  excell'd  the  rest,  and  oft  he  sang 

Songs,  patriotic,  as  in  duty  bound. 
He  had  a  little  of  the  "  nasal  twang 

"  Heard  at  conventicle ;"  but  yet  you  found 
In  him  a  dash  of  purity  and  brightness. 
That  spoke  the  man  of  taste,  and  of  pohteness. 

LXXIV. 

For  he  had  been,  it  seems,  the  bosom  friend 
Of  England's  prettiest  bard,  Anacreon  Moore. 

They  met  when  the  said  bard  came  here  to  spend 
Some  time  and  money  on  this  favour'd  shore; 

For,  as  the  proverb  saith,  "  birds  of  a  feather 

Instinctively  will  flock  and  fly  together." 


30 


LXXV. 


And,  from  the  following  song,  it  would  appear 
That  Mr.  Moore  from  Mr.  T****e  took 

The  model  of  his  "  Bower  of  Bendemecr," 
One  of  the  sweetest  airs  in  Lalla  Rookh ; 

'Tis  to  be  hoped,  that  in  his  next  edition. 

This,  the  original,  will  find  admission. 


Son0« 


There's  a  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall. 

And  the  bucktails  are  swigging  it  all  the  night  long. 
In  the  lime  of  my  boyhood  'twas  pleasant  to  call 

For  a  seat  and  segar,  'mid  the  jovial  throng. 
That  beer  and  those  bucktails  I'll  never  forget ; 

But  oft,  when  alone,  and  unnoticed  by  all, 
I  think,  is  the  porter  cask  foaming  there  yet? 

Are  the  bucktails  still  swigging  at  Tammany  Hall  ? 


No!  the  porter  was  out  long  before  it  was  stale, 
But  some  blossoms  on  many  a  nose  brightly  shone 


31 


And  the  speeches  inspir'd  by  the  fumes  of  the  ale, 
Had  the  fragrance  of  porter  when  porter  was  gone. 

How  much  Cozzens  will  draw  of  such  beer  ere  he  dies, 
Is  a  question  of  moment  to  me  and  to  all ; 

For  still  dear  to  my  soul,  as  'twas  then  to  mine  eyes, 
Is  that  barrel  of  porter  at  Tammany  Hall. 

LXXVI. 

For  many  months  my  hero  ne'er  neglected 
To  take  his  ramble  there,  and  soon  found  out, 

In  much  less  time  than  one  could  have  expected, 
What  'twas  they  all  were  quarrelling  about. 

He  learn'd  the  party  countersigns  by  rote, 

And  when  to  clap  his  hands,  and  how  to  vote. 

LXXVil. 

He  learn'd  that  C*****n  became  governor 

Somehow  by  chance,  when  we  were  all  asleep ; 

That  he  had  neither  sense,  nor  talent,  nor 
Any  good  quality,  and  would  not  keep 

His  place  an  hour  after  the  next  election— 

So  powerful  was  the  voice  of  disaffection. 


82 


LXXVUI. 

That  he  was  a  mere  puppet,  made  to  play 

A  thousand  tricks,  while  S*****r  touch'd  the  springs- 
S*****r,  the  mighty  Warwick  of  his  day, 

"That  setter-up,  and  puller-down  of  kings," 
Aided  by  M****r,  P*ll,  and  Doctor  G****m, 
And  other  men  of  equal  worth  and  fame. 

LXXIX. 

And  that  he'd  set  the  people  at  defiance, 

By  placing  knaves  and  fools  in  public  stations ; 

And  that  his  works  in  literature  and  science, 
Were  but  a  mangled  mass  of  misquotations ; 

And  that  he'd  quoted  from  the  devil  even — 

"  Better  to  reign  in  hell  than  serve  in  heaven." 

LXXX. 

To  these  authentic  facts  each  bucktail  swore ; 

But  C*****n's  friends  averr'd,  in  contradiction, 
They  were  but  fables,  told  by  Mr.  N**h, 

Who  had  a  privilege  to  deal  in  fiction. 
Because  he'd  written  travels,  and  a  melo- 
Drama ;  and  was,  withal,  a  pleasant  fellow. 


33 


Lxxxr. 

And  they  declared,  that  Tompkins  was  no  better 
Than  he  should  be ;  that  he  had  borrow'd  money, 

And  paid  it — not  in  cash — but  with  a  letter; 

And  though  some  trifling  service  he  had  done,  he 

Still  wanted  spirit,  energy,  and  fire ; 

And  was  dislik'd  by — Mr.  M'lntyre. 

LXXXII. 

In  short,  each  one  with  whom  in  conversation 
He  join'd,  contriv'd  to  give  him  different  views 

Of  men  and  measures ;  and  the  information 
Which  he  obtained,  but  aided  to  confuse 

His  brain.     At  best,  'twas  never  very  clear; 

And  now  'twas  turn'd  with  politics  and  beer. 

LXXXIII. 

And  he  was  puff'd,  and  flatter'd,  and  caress'd 
By  all,  till  he  sincerely  thought  that  nature 

Had  form'd  him  for  an  Alderman  at  least — 
Perhaps,  a  member  of  the  Legislature ; 

And  that  he  had  the  talents,  ten  times  over, 

Of  H***y  M**gs,  or  P***r  H.  W******r. 


34 


LXXXIV. 

The  man  was  mad,  'tis  plain,  and  merits  pilv. 

Or  he  had  never  dar'd,  in  such  a  tone, 
To  speak  of  two  great  persons,  whom  the  city, 

With  pride  and  pleasure,  points  to  as  her  own. 
Men,  w^ise  in  council,  brilliant  in  debate, 

"  The  expectancy  and  rose  of  the  fair  state." 

LXXXV. 

The  one — for  a  pure  style,  and  classic  manner, 

Is — Mr.  Sachem  M****y  far  before. 
The  other,  in  his  speech  about  the  banner, 

Spell-bound  his  audience,  until  they  swore. 
That  such  a  speech  was  never  heard  till  then, 
And  never  would  be — till  he  spoke  again. 

LXXXV  J. 

Though  twas  presumptuous  in  this  friend  of  ours 
To  think  of  rivalling  these,  I  must  allow 

That  still  tbe  man  had  talents;  and  the  powers 
Of  his  capacious  intellect  were  now 

Improv'd  by  foreign  travel,  and  by  reading, 

And  at  the  Hall  he'd  learn'd,  of  course,  good  breeding. 


35 


LXXXVII. 

He'd  read  the  newspapers,  with  great  attention. 

Advertisements  and  all ;  and  Riley's  book 
Of  travels — valued  for  its  rich  invention ; 

And  Day  and  Turner's  Price  Current;  and  took 
The  Edinburgh  and  Quarterly  Reviews ; 
And  also,  Colonel  Pell's — and,  to  amuse 

LXXXVIII. 

His  leisure  hours  with  classic  tale  and  story, 

Longworth's  Directory,  and  Mead's  Wall-street. 

And  Mr.  Delaplaine's  Repository; 

And  M*****ll's  scientific  works  complete, 

With  other  standard  books  of  modern  days, 

Lay  on  his  table,  cover'd  with  green  baize. 

LXXXIX. 

His  travels  had  extended  to  Bath  races ; 

And  Bloomingdale,  and  Bergen,  he  had  seen ; 
And  HarlaBm  Heights ;  and  many  other  places, 

By  sea  and  land,  had  visited ;  and  been 
In  a  steam-boat  of  the  Vice  President's, 
To  Staten-Island  once — for  fiftv  cents. 


36 


xc. 


And  he  had  din'd,  by  special  invitation, 
On  turtle,  with  the  party  at  Hoboken ; 

And  thank'd  them  for  his  card,  in  an  oration, 
Declar'd  to  be  the  shortest  ever  spoken. 

And  he  had  stroll'd  one  day  o'er  Weehawk  hill ; 

A  day  worth  all  the  rest — he  recollects  it  still. 


xci. 


Weehawken !  hi  thy  mountain  scenery  yet. 

All  we  adore  of  nature  in  her  wild 
And  frolic  hour  of  infancy,  is  met; 

And  never  has  a  summer's  morning  smil'd 
Upon  a  lovelier  scene,  than  the  full  eye 
Of  the  enthusiast  revels  on — when  higli. 

xcii. 

Amid  thy  forest  solitudes,  he  climbs 

O'er  crags,  that  proudly  tower  above  the  deep, 
And  knows  that  sense  of  danger,  which  subUmes 

The  breathless  moment — when  his  daring  step 
Is  on  the  verge  of  the  cliff,  and  he  can  hear 
The  low  dash  of  the  wave  with  startled  ear. 


37 


CXIII. 


Like  the  death-music  of  his  coming  doom, 

And  cUngs  to  the  green  turf  with  desperate  forcj;. 

As  the  heart  clings  to  Ufe ;  and  when  resume 
The  currents  in  his  veins  their  wonted  course. 

There  hngers  a  deep  feeUng — hke  the  moan 

Of  wearied  ocean,  when  the  storm  is  gone. 

XCIV. 

In  such  an  hour  he  turns,  and  on  his  view, 

Ocean,  and  earth,  and  heaven,  burst  before  him. 

Clouds  slumbering  at  his  feet,  and  the  clear  blue 
Of  Summer's  sky,  in  beauty  bending  o'er  him — 

The  city  bright  below;  and  far  away. 

Sparkling  in  golden  light,  his  own  romantic  bay. 

xcv. 

Tall  spire,  and  glittering  roof,  and  battlement. 

And  banners  floating  in  the  sunny  air; 
And  white  sails  o'er  the  calm  blue  waters  bent, 

Green  isle,  and  circling  shore,  are  blended  there- 
in wild  reality.     When  life  is  old, 
And  many  a  scene  forgot,  the  heart  will  hold 


38 


XCVI. 

Its  memory  of  this ;  nor  lives  there  one 

Whose  infant  breath  was  drawn,  or  boyhood's  days 
Of  happiness,  were  pass'd  beneath  that  sun, 

That  in  his  manhood's  prime  can  calmly  gaze 
Upon  that  bay,  or  on  that  mountain  stand, 
Nor  feel  the  prouder  of  his  native  land. 

XCVU. 

•'  This  may  be  poetry,  for  aught  I  know," 

Said  an  old,  worthy,  friend  of  mine,  while  leaning 

O'er  my  shoulder  as  I  wrote,  "  altho' 

"  I  can't  exactly  comprehend  its  meaning. 

•'  For  my  part,  I  have  long  been  a  petitioner 

"  To  Mr.  J**n  M'C**b,  the  street-commissioner, 

CXVIII. 

"  That  he  would  think  of  Weehawk,  and  would  lay  it 
"  Handsomely  out  in  avenue  and  square ; 

"  Then  tax  the  land,  and  make  its  owners  pay  it, 
"  (As  is  the  usual  plan  pursued  elsewhere,) 

•'  Blow  up  the  rocks,  and  sell  the  wood  for  fuel — 

•'  'Twould  save  us  many  a  dollar,  and  a  duel." 


39 


XCIX. 


The  devil  take  you  and  J**n  M'C**b,  said  I; 

L**g,  in  its  praise,  has  penn'd  one  paragraph, 
And  promisM  me  another.     I  defy, 

With  such  assistance,  yours  and  the  world's  laugh; 
And  half  believe  that  Paulding,  on  this  theme, 
Might  be  a  poet— strange  as  it  may  seem. 


For  even  our  traveller  felt,  when  home  returning 
From  that  day's  tour,  as  on  the  deck  he  stood. 

The  fire  of  poetry  within  him  burning; 
"  Albeit,  unused  to  the  rhyming  mood;" 

And  with  a  pencil  on  his  knee  he  wrote 

The  following  flaming  lines— to  the  Horse-Boat: 


1. 


Away— o'er  the  wave  to  the  home  we  are  seeking. 
Bark  of  my  hope  ere  the  evening  be  gone ; 

There's  a  wild,  wild  note  in  the  curlew's  shrieking; 
There's  a  whisper  of  death  in  the  wind's  low  moan. 


40 


Though  blue  and  bright  are  the  heavens  above  me, 
And  the  stars  are  asleep  on  the  quiet  sea  5 

And  hearts  I  love,  and  hearts  that  love  me, 
Are  beating  beside  me  merrily, 


3. 


Yet— far  in  the  west,  vi^here  the  day's  faded  roses, 
Touch'd  by  the  moon-beam,  are  withering  fast; 

Where  the  half-seen  spirit  of  twilight  reposes, 
Hymning  the  dirge  of  the  hours  that  are  past. 


There,  where  the  ocean-wave  sparkles  at  meeting 
(As  sunset  dreams  tell  us)  the  kiss  of  the  sky, 

On  his  dim,  dark  cloud  is  the  infant  storm  sitting. 
And  beneath  the  horizon  his  lightnings  are  nigh. 


Another  hour — and  the  death-word  is  given, 
Another  hour— and  his  lightnings  are  here ; 


41 


Speed!  speed  thee,  my  bark;  ere  the  breeze  of  even 
Is  lost  in  the  tempest,  our  home  will  be  near. 


Then  away  o'er  the  wave,  while  thy  pennant  is  streaming 
In  the  shadowy  light,  hke  a  shooting  star; 

Be  swift  as  the  thought  of  the  wanderer,  dreaming, 
In  a  stranger  land,  of  his  fire-side  afar. 


And  while  memory  lingers  I'll  fondly  believe  thee 
A  being  with  life  and  its  best  feelings  warm ; 

And  freely  the  wild  song  of  gratitude  weave  thee, 
Blest  spirit!  that  bore  me  and  mine  from  the  storm. 


But  where  is  Fanny  ?  She  has  long  been  thrown 
Where  cheeks  and  roses  wither — in  the  shade. 

The  age  of  chivalry,  you  know,  is  gone ; 
And  although,  as  I  once  before  have  said, 

I  love  a  pretty  face  to  adoration, 

Yel,  still,  I  must  preserve  my  reputation. 
6 


42 


Cll. 


As  a  true  Dandy  of  the  modern  schools. 

One  hates  to  be  old-fashioned ;  it  would  be 
A.  violation  of  the  latest  rules, 

To  treat  the  sex  with  too  much  courtesy. 
'Tis  not  to  worship  beauty,  as  she  glows 
In  all  her  diamond  lustre,  that  the  Beaux 


cm. 


Of  these  enlighten' d  days  at  evening  crowd, 
Where  fashion  sparkles  in  her  rooms  of  light. 

That  "  dignified  obedience ;  that  proud 

Submission,"  which,  in  times  of  yore,  the  Knight 

Oave  to  his  "  Ladye-love,"  is  now  a  scandal, 

And  practis'd  only  by  your  Goth  or  Vandal. 


CIV. 


To  lounge  in  graceful  attitudes — be  star'd 
Upon,  the  while,  by  ev'ry  fair  one's  eye, 

And  stare  one's  self,  in  turn;  to  be  prepar'd 
To  dart  upon  the  trays^  as  swiftly  by 

The  dexterous  Simon  bears  them,  and  to  take 

One's  share,  at  least,  of  coffee,  cream,  and  cake, 


48 


cv. 


Is  now  to  be  the  ton.     The  pouting  lip, 
And  sad,  upbraiding  eye  of  the  poor  girl, 

Who  hardly  of  her  tea  one  drop  can  sip, 
Ere  in  the  wild  confusion,  and  the  whirl, 

And  tumult  of  the  hour,  the  good  things  vanish, 

Must  now  be  disregarded.     One  must  banish 


CVI. 


Those  antiquated  feelings,  that  belong 
To  feudal  manners,  and  a  barbarous  age. 

Time  was — when  woman  "  pour'd  her  soul"  in  song. 
That  all  was  hush'd  around.     'Tis  now  the  rage 

To  deem  a  song,  like  bugle-tones  in  battle, 

A  signal  note,  that  bids  each  tongue's  artillery  rattle. 


CVII. 


And,  therefore,  I  have  made  Miss  Fanny  wait 

My  leisure.     She  had  chang'd,  as  you  will  see,  as 

Much  as  her  worthy  sire,  and  made  as  great 
Proficiency  in  taste  and  high  ideas.' 

The  careless  smile  of  other  days  was  gone, 

And  every  gesture  spoke  "  q^en  dira-t''  on  .^" 


44 


CVIII. 


She  long  had  known  that  in  her  father's  coffers, 

And  also  to  his  credit  in  the  banks, 
There  was  some  cash;  and  therefore  all  the  offers 

Made  her,  by  gentlemen  of  the  middle  ranks, 
Of  heart  and  hand,  had  spurn'd,  as  far  beneath 
One  whose  high  destiny  it  was  to  breathe. 


Ere  long,  the  air  of  Broadway,  or  Park-place, 
And  reign  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land; 

Display  in  the  gay  dance,  her  form  of  grace, 

Or  touch  with  rounded  arm,  and  gloveless  hand, 

Harp  or  piano. — Madame  Catilani 

Forgot  awhile,  and  every  eye  on  Fanny. 


And  in  anticipation  of  that  hour. 

Her  star  of  hope — her  paradise  of  thought, 
SheM  had  as  many  masters  as  the  power 

Of  riches  could  berstow;  and  had  been  taught 
The  thousand  nameless  graces,  that  adorn 
The  daughters  of  the  wealthy,  and  high  born. 


45 


CXI. 


She  had  been  notic'd  at  some  pubUc  places, 
(The  Battery,  and  the  balls  of  Mr.  Whale,) 

For  her's  was  one  of  those  attractive  faces, 
That  when  you  gaze  upon  them,  never  fail 

To  bid  you  look  again;  there  was  a  beam, 

A  lustre  in  her  eye,  that  oft  would  seem 

CXII. 

A  little  like  eflfrontery,  and  yet 

My  Fanny  meant  no  harm ;  her  only  aim 

Was  but  to  be  admired  by  all  she  met, 

And  the  free  homage  of  the  heart  to  claim ; 

And  if  she  show'd  too  plainly  this  intention, 

Others  have  done  the  same — 'twas  not  of  her  invention. 

CXIII. 

She  shone  at  every  concert ;  where  are  bought 
Tickets,  by  all  who  wish  them,  for  a  dollar; 

She  patronis'd  the  Theatre,  and  thought 

That  Wallack  look'd  extremely  well  in  Rolla ; 

She  fell  in  love,  as  all  the  ladies  do, 

With  Mr.  Simpson — talked  as  loudly,  too, 


46 


CXIV. 


As  any  beauty  of  the  highest  grade, 

To  the  gay  circle  in  the  box  beside  her; 
And  when  the  pit — half  vex'd  and  half  afraid, 

'  With  looks  of  smother'd  indignation  eyed  her. 
She  calmly  met  their  gaze,  and  stood  before  'em, 
Smiling  at  vulgar  taste,  and  mock  decorum. 


And  though  by  no  means  a  "  Bas  bleu,''''  she  had 
For  literature  a  most  becoming  passion ; 

Had  skimm'd  the  latest  novels,  good  and  bad. 

And  read  the  Croakers,  when  they  were  in  fashion ; 

And  Doctor  Chalmers'  sermons,  of  a  Sunday; 

And  Woodworth's  Cabinet,  and  the  new  Salmagundi. 

cxvi. 

She  was  among  the  first  and  warmest  patrons 

Of  G******'s  conversaziones,  where 
In  rainbow  groups,  our  bright  ey'd  maids  and  matrons, 

On  science  bent,  assemble ;  to  prepare 
Themselves  for  acting  well,  in  life,  their  part 
As  wives  and  mothers.     There  she  learn'd  by  heart 


47 


CXVII. 

Words,  to  the  witches  in  Macbeth  unknown. 

Hydraulics,  hydrostatics,  dind  pneumatics, 
Dioptrics,  optics,  katoptrics,  carbon, 

Chlorine,  and  iodine,  and  aerostatics^ 
Also, — why  frogs,  for  want  of  air,  expire ; 
And  how  to  set  the  Tappan  sea  on  fire ! 

cxvin. 

In  all  the  modern  languages  she  was 
Exceedingly  well  vers'd ;  and  had  devoted, 

To  their  attainment,  far  more  time  than  has, 
By  the  best  teachers  lately,  been  allotted; 

For  she  had  taken  lessons,  twice  a  week, 

For  a  full  month  in  each ;  and  she  could  speak 

CXIX. 

French  and  Italian,  equally  as  well 

As  Chinese,  Portuguese,  or  German;  and, 

What  is  still  more  surprising,  she  could  spell 
Most  of  our  longest  English  words,  off  hand ; 

Was  quite  familiar  in  Low  Dutch  and  Spanish, 

And  thought  of  studying  modern  Greek  and  Danish. 


48 


cxx. 


She  sang  divinely:  and  in  "  Love's  young  dream^''^ 
And  "  Fanny  dearest,''''  and  "  The  soldier'' s  bride  f''^ 

And  every  song,  whose  dear  dehghtful  theme, 
Is  "  Love,  still  love,"  had  oft  till  midnight  tried 

Her  finest,  loftiest  pigeon-wings  of  sound. 

Waking  the  very  watchmen  far  around. 

cxxi. 

For  her  pure  taste  in  dress,  I  can  appeal  to 
Madame  Bouquet,  and  Monsieur  Pardessus ; 

She  was,  in  short,  a  woman  you  might  kneel  to, 
If  kneeling  was  in  fashion ;  or  if  you 

Were  wearied  of  your  duns,  and  single  life, 

And  wanted  a  few  thousands,  and  a  wife. 

CXXII. 

************ 


49 


CXXIIL 

"  There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night;" 

Broadway  was  throng'd  with  coaches,  and  within 

A  mansion  of  the  best  of  brick,  the  bright 
And  eloquent  eyes  of  beauty  bade  begin 

The  dance — and  music's  tones  swell'd  wild  and  high, 

And  hearts  and  heels  kept  tune  in  tremulous  extasy. 

cxxiv. 

For  many  a  week,  the  note  of  preparation 

Had  sounded  through  all  circles  far  and  near; 

And  some  five  hundred  cards  of  invitation 
Bade  beau  and  belle  in  full  costume  appear; 

There  was  a  most  magnificent  variety, 

All  quite  select,  and  of  the  first  society, 

cxxv. 

That  is  to  say — the  rich,  and  the  well-bred, 

The  arbiters  of  fashion  and  gentility, 
In  different  grades  of  splendour,  from  the  head 

Down  to  the  very  toe  of  our  nobility: 
Ladies,  remarkable  for  handsome  eyes, 
Or  handsome  fortunes — learned  men,  and  wise  :— 
7 


50 


CXXVI. 

Statesmen,  and  officers  of  the  militia — 

In  short,  the  Jirst  society — a  phrase. 
Which  you  may  understand  as  best  may  lit  you, 

Besides  the  blackest  fiddlers  of  those  days. 
Placed  like  their  sire,  Timotheus,  on  high, 
With  horse-hair  fiddle  bows,  and  teeth  of  ivory. 

CXXVII. 

The  carpets  were  roll'd  up  the  day  before. 

And,  with  a  breath,  two  rooms  became  but  one. 

Like  man  and  wife — and,  on  the  polish'd  floor. 
Chalk  in  the  artists'  plastic  hand  had  done 

All  that  chalk  could  do — in  young  Eden's  bowers 

They  seemed  to  tread,  and  their  feet  pressM  on  flowers. 

CXXVIII. 

And  when  the  thousand  lights  of  spermaceti 

Stream'd  like  a  shower  of  sun-beams — and  free  tresses 

Wild  as  the  heads  that  wav'd  them — and  a  pretty 
Collection  of  the  latest  London  dresses 

Wander'd  about  the  rooms  like  things  divine. 

It  was,  as  I  was  told,  extremely  fine. 


51 


CXXIX. 


The  love  of  fun,  fine  faces,  and  good  eating, 
Brought  many  who  were  tir'd  of  self  and  home; 

And  some  were  there  in  the  high  hope  of  meeting 
The  lady  of  their  bosom"'s  love — and  some 

To  study  that  deep  science,  how  to  please. 

And  manners  in  high  life,  and  high-soulM  courtesies. 


And  he,  the  hero  of  the  night,  was  there, 
In  breeches  of  light  drab,  and  coat  of  blue. 

Taste  was  conspicuous  in  his  powder'd  hair, 
And  in  his  frequent  jer^x  de  mots,  that  drew 

Peals  of  applauses  from  the  list'ners  round. 

Who  were  delighted — as  in  duty  bound. 

CXXXI. 

'Twas  Fanny's  father — Fanny  near  him  stood. 
Her  power,  resistless — and  her  wish,  command ; 

And  Hope's  young  promises,  were  all  made  good;- 
"  She  reign'd  a  fairy  queen  in  fairy  land;" 

Her  dream  of  infancy  a  dream  no  more, 

And  then  how  beautiful  the  dress  she  wore ! 


52 


CXXXII. 


Ambition  with  the  sire  had  kept  her  word. 

He  had  the  rose,  no  matter  for  its  thorn, 
And  he  seem'd  happy  as  a  summer  bird, 

Careering  on  wet  wing  to  meet  the  morn. 
Some  said  there  was  a  cloud  upon  his  brow; 
It  might  be — but  we**!!  not  discuss  that  now. 


I  left  him  making  rhymes  while  crossing  o'er 

The  broad  and  perilous  wave  of  the  North  River. 

He  bade  adieu,  when  safely  on  the  shore, 
To  poetry — and,  as  he  thought,  forever. 

That  night  his  dream  (if  after  deeds  make  known 

Our  piaus  in  sleep)  was  an  enchanting  one. 


He  woke,  in  strength,  like  Sampson  from  his  slumber. 
And  walk'd  Broadway,  enraptur'd  the  next  day; 

Purchas'd  a  house  there — I've  forgot  the  number, 
And  sign'd  a  mortgage  and  a  bond,  for  pay. 

Gave,  in  the  slang  phrase,  Pearl-street  the  go-by, 

And  cut,  for  several  months,  St.  Tammany. 


53 


cxxxv. 


Bond,  mortgage,  title  deeds,  and  all  completedj 
He  bought  a  coach  and  half  a  dozen  horses, 

(The  bills  at  Lawrence's — not  yet  receipted — 
You'll  find  the  amount  upon  his  list  of  losses,) 

Then  fill'd  his  rooms  with  servants,  and  whatever 
Is  necessary  for  a  genteel  liver, 

CXXXVI. 

This  last  removal  fix'd  him — every  stain 

Was  blotted  from  his  "  household  coat,"  and  he 

Now  "  show'd  the  world  he  was  a  gentleman," 
And,  what  is  better,  could  afford  to  be ; 

His  step  was  loftier  than  it  was  of  old. 

His  laugh  less  frequent,  and  his  manner  told 

CXXXVII. 

What  lovers  call  "  unutterable  things" — 

That  sort  of  dignity  was  in  his  mien 
Which  awes  the  gazer  into  ice,  and  brings 

To  recollection  some  great  man  we've  seen, 
The  G*******,  perchance,  whose  eye  and  frown, 
'Twas  shrewdly  guess'd,  would  knock  poor  S******  down. 


54 


CXXXVIU. 


And  for  Resources,  both  of  purse  and  head, 
He  was  a  subject  worthy  Bristed's  pen; 

Behev'd  devoutly  all  his  flatterers  said, 

And  deem'd  himself  a  Croesus  among  men ; 

Spread  to  the  liberal  air  his  silken  sails, 

And  lavish 'd  guineas  like  a  Prince  of  Wales. 

CXXXIX. 

He  mingled  now  with  those  within  whose  veins 
The  blood  ran  pure — the  magnates  of  the  land- 

Hail'd  them  as  his  companions  and  his  friends. 
And  lent  them  money  and  his  note  of  hand. 

In  every  institution,  whose  proud  aim 

Is  public  good  alone,  he  soon  became 


A  man  of  consequence  and  notoriety; 

His  name,  with  the  addition  of  esquire, 
Stood  high  upon  the  list  of  each  society. 

Whose  zeal  and  watchfulness  the  sacred  fire 
Of  science,  agriculture,  art,  and  learning, 
Keep  on  our  country's  altars  bright  and  burning. 


55 


CXLI. 


At  Eastburn's  Rooms  he  met,  at  two  each  day, 
With  men  of  taste  and  judgment  like  his  own, 

And  p\diy'' d  f,rst  fddle  in  that  orchestra 
Of  literary  worthies — and  the  tone 

Of  his  mind's  music,  by  the  list'ners  caught, 

Is  trac'd  among  them  still  in  language  and  in  thought. 

CXLU. 

He  once  made  the  Lyceum  a  choice  present 
Of  muscle  shells  pick'd  up  at  Rockaway, 

(The  Doctor  gave  a  classical  and  pleasant 
Discourse  about  them  in  the  streets  that  day, 

Naming  the  shells,  and  hard  to  put  in  verse  'twas. 

"  Testaceous  coverings  of  bivalve  moluscas.") 

CXLIII. 

He  was  a  trustee  of  a  Savings  Bank, 

And  lectur'd  soundly  every  evil  doer, 
Gave  dinners  daily  to  wealth,  power,  and  rank. 

And  sixpence  every  Sunday  to  the  poor; 
He  was  a  wit,  in  the  pun-making  line — 
Past  fifty  years  of  age,  and  five  feet  nine. 


56 


CXLIV. 

But  as  he  trod  to  grandeur's  pinnacle, 

With  eagle  eye  and  step  that  never  falter'd, 

The  busy  tongue  of  scandal  dar'd  to  tell 

That  cash  was  scarce  with  him,  and  credit  alter'd; 

And  while  he  stood  the  envy  of  beholders, 

The  Bank  Directors  grinn'd,  and  shi'ugg'd  their  shoulders. 

CXLV. 

And  when  these,  the  Lord  Burleighs  of  the  minute, 
Shake  their  sage  heads,  and  look  demure  and  holy, 

Depend  upon  it  there  is  something  in  it; 
For  whether  born  of  wisdom  or  of  folly, 

Suspicion  is  a  being  whose  fell  power 

Blights  every  thing  it  touches,  fruit  and  flower. 

CXLVI. 

Some  friends  (they  were  his  creditors)  once  hinted 

About  retrenchment  and  a  day  of  doom, 
He  thank'd  them,  as  no  doubt  they  kindly  meant  it, 

And  made  this  speech,  when  they  had  left  the  room : 
"  Of  all  the  curses  upon  mortals  sent, 
"  One's  creditors  are  the  most  impudent, — 


57 


CXLVII. 


"  Now,  I  am  one  who  knows  what  he  is  doing, 
"  And  suits  exactly  to  his  means  his  ends; 

"  How  can  a  man  be  in  the  path  to  ruin, 

"  When  all  the  brokers  are  his  bosom  friends? 

•'  Yet,  on  my  hopes,  and  those  of  my  dear  daughter, 

••  These  rascals  throw  a  bucket  of  cold  water! 

CXLViii. 

••  They'd  wrinkle  with  deep  cares  the  prettiest  face, 
"  Pour  gall  and  wormwood  in  the  sweetest  cup, 

"  Poison  the  very  wells  of  life — and  place 

"  Whitechapel  needles,  with  their  sharp  points  up, 

"  Even  in  the  softest  feather  bed  that  e'er 

•'  Was  manufactur'd  by  upholsterer." 

CXLFX. 

This  said — he  journey'd  "  at  his  own  sweet  will," 
Like  one  of  Wordsworth's  rivers,  calmly  on: 

But  yet,  at  times,  Reflection,  "  in  her  still 

"  Small  voice,"  would  whisper,  something  must  be  done 

He  ask'd  advice  of  Fanny,  and  the  maid 

Promptly  and  duteously  lent  her  aid. 
8 


58 


CL. 


Slie  told  him,  with  that  readiness  of  mind, 
And  quickness  of  perception,  which  belong; 

Exclusively  to  gentle  womankind, 

That  to  submit  to  slanderers  were  wrong, 

And  the  best  plan  to  silence  and  admonish  'em. 

Would  be  to  give  a  party — and  astonish  'em. 

CLI. 

The  hint  was  taken — and  the  party  given; 

And  Fanny,  as  I  said  some  pages  since. 
Was  there  in  power  and  loveliness  that  even, 

And  he,  her  sire,  demean'd  him  like  a  prince. 
And  all  was  joy — it  look'd  a  festival. 
Where  pain  might  smooth  his  brow,  and  grief  her  smiles  recal. 


CLU. 


But  Fortune,  like  some  others  of  her  sex. 

Delights  in  tantalizing  and  tormenting; 
One  day  we  feed  upon  their  smiles — the  next 

Is  spent  in  swearing,  sorrowing,  and  repenting. 
(If  in  the  four  last  lines  the  author  hes. 
He's  always  ready  to  apologize.) 


59 


CLIII. 


Eve  never  walked  in  Paradise  more  pure 

Than  on  that  morn  when  Satan  play'd  the  devil 

With  her  and  all  her  race.     A  love-sick  wooer 
Ne'er  asked  a  kinder  maiden,  or  more  civil. 

Than  Cleopatra  was  to  Antony 

The  day  she  left  him  on  the  Ionian  sea. 


The  serpent — loveliest  in  his  coiled  ring, 

With  eye  that  charms,  and  beauty  that  outvies 

The  tints  of  the  rainbow — bears  upon  his  sting 
The  deadliest  venom.     Ere  the  dolphin  dies 

Its  hues  are  brightest.     Like  an  infant's  breath 

Are  tropic  winds,  before  the  voice  of  death 

CLV. 

Is  heard  upon  the  waters,  summoning 

The  midnight  earthquake  from  its  sleep  of  years, 

To  do  its  task  of  woe.     The  clouds  that  fling 
The  lightning,  brighten  ere  the  bolt  appears ; 

The  pantings  of  the  warrior's  heart  are  proud 

Upon  that  battle  morn  whose  night-dews  wet  his  shroud : 


60 


CLVI. 


The  s-iia  is  loveliest  as  he  sinks  to  rest; 

The  leaves  of  autumn  smile  when  fading  fast ; 
The  sv^^an's  last  song  is  sw  eetest — and  the  best 

Of  Meigs's  speeches,  doubtless,  was  his  last. 
And  thus  the  happiest  scene,  in  these  mj  rhymes, 
Clos'd  with  a  crash,  and  usher'd  in  hard  times. 

CLVU. 

St.  Paul's  toll'd  one — and  fifteen  minutes  after 
Down  came,  by  accident,  a  chandelier; 

The  mansion  totterM  from  the  floor  to  rafter! 
Uprose  the  cry  of  agony  and  fear! 

And  there  was  shrieking,  screaming,  bustling,  fluttering. 

Beyond  the  power  of  writing,  or  of  uttering. 


The  company  departed,  and  neglected 

To  say,  good-by — the  father  storm'd  and  swore — 

The  fiddlers  grinn'd — the  daughter  look'd  dejected — 
The  flowers  had  vanish'd  from  the  polish'd  floor, 

And  both  betook  them  to  their  sleepless  beds. 

With  hearts  and  prospects  broken,  but  no  heads. 


61 


CLIX. 


The  desolate  relief  of  free  complaining 

Came  with  the  morn,  and  with  it  came  bad  weather: 
The  wind  was  east  north-east,  and  it  was  raining 

Throughout  that  day,  which,  take  it  altogether, 
Was  one  whose  memory  clings  to  us  through  life, 
Just  like  a  suit  in  Chancery,  or  a  wife. 


CLX, 


That  ev'ning,  with  a  most  important  face 

And  dreadful  knock,  and  tidings  still  more  dreadful, 

A  notary  came — sad  things  had  taken  place ; 
My  hero  had  forgot  to  do  the  needful; 

A  note,  (amount  not  stated,)  with  his  name  ou't. 

Was  left  unpaid— in  short,  he  had  stopped  payment. 

CLXI. 

I  hate  your  tragedies,  both  long  and  short  ones, 
(Except  Tom  Thumb,  and  Juan's  Pantomime;) 

And  stories  woven  of  sorrows  and  misfortunes 
Are  bad  enough  in  prose,  and  worse  in  rhyme : 

Mine,  therefore,  must  be  brief.     Under  protest 

His  notes  remain — the  wise  can  guess  the  rest. 


62 


CLXir. 


For  two  whole  days  they  were  the  common  talk ; 

The  party,  and  the  failure,  and  all  thj^t, 
The  theme  of  loungers  in  their  morning  walk, 

Porter-house  reasoning,  and  tea-table  chat. 
The  third,  some  newer  wonder  came  to  blot  them, 
And  on  the  fourth,  the  "  meddling  world"  forgot  them. 

CLXIII. 

Anxious,  however,  something  to  discover, 

I  pass'd  their  house — the  shutters  were  all  clos'd ; 

The  song  of  knocker  and  of  bell  was  over; 
Upon  the  steps  two  chimney  sweeps  repos'd; 

And  on  the  door  my  dazzl'd  eye-beam  met 

These  cabalistic  words — "  this  house  to  let.'' 

CLXIV. 

They  live  now,  like  chameleons,  upon  air 
And  hope,  and  such  cold  unsubstantial  dishes ; 

That  they  remov'd,  is  clear,  but  when  or  where 
None  knew.     The  curious  reader,  if  he  wishes. 

May  ask  them,  but  in  vain.     Where  grandeur  dwells. 

The  marble  dome  the  popular  rumour  tells ; 


63 


CLXV. 

But  of  the  dwellings  of  the  proud  and  poor, 
From  their  own  lips  the  world  will  never  know, 

When  betters  days  are  gone — it  is  secure 
Beyond  all  other  mysteries  here  below, 

Except,  perhaps,  a  maiden  lady's  age, 

When  past  the  noon-day  of  life's  pilgrimage. 

CLXVI. 

Fanny !  'twas  with  her  name  my  song  began ; 

'Tis  proper  and  polite  her  name  should  end  it; 
If  in  my  story  of  her  woes,  or  plan 

Or  moral  can  be  trac'd,  'twas  not  intended : 
And  if  I've  wrongM  her,  I  can  only  tell  her 
I'm  sorry  for  it — so  is  my  bookseller. 

CLXVII. 

I  met  her  yesterday — her  eyes  were  wet — 

She  faintly  smil'd,  and  said  she  had  been  reading 

The  Treasurer's  Report  in  the  Gazette, 

M'Intyre's  speech,  and  Campbell's  Love  lies  bleeding; 

She  had  a  shawl  on,  'twas  not  a  Cashmere  one, 

And  if  it  cost  five  dollars,  'twas  a  dear  one. 


64 


CLXVIII. 

Her  father  sent  to  Albany  a  prayer 

For  office,  told  how  fortune  had  abus'd  him, 

And  modestly  requested  to  be  Mayor — 
The  Council  very  civilly  refus'd  him ; 

Because,  however  much  he  might  desire  it, 

The  public  good,  it  seems,  did  not  require  it. 

CLXIX. 

Some  evenings  since,  he  took  a  lonely  stroll 
Along  Broadway,  scene  of  past  joys  and  evils : 

He  felt  that  withering  bitterness  of  soul. 
Quaintly  denominated  the  blue  devils  j 

And  thought  of  Buonaparte  and  Belisarius, 

Pompey,  and  Colonel  Burr,  and  Caius  Marius, 


And  envying  the  loud  playfulness  and  mirth 

Of  those  who  pass'd  him,  gay  in  youth  and  hope. 

He  took  at  Jupiter  a  shilling's  worth 

Of  gazing,  through  the  showman's  telescope ; 

Sounds  as  of  far  off  bells  came  on  his  ears, 

He  fancied  'twas  the  music  of  the  spheres. 


65 


CLXXI. 

He  was  mistaken,  it  was  no  such  thing, 

'Twas  Yankee  Doodle  play'd  by  Scudder's  band: 

He  mutter'd,  as  he  hnger'd  hstening, 

Something  of  freedom,  and  our  happy  land; 

Then  sketch'd,  as  to  his  home  he  hurried  fast, 

This  sentimental  song — his  saddest,  and  his  last. 


Young  thoughts  have  music  in  them,  love 

And  happiness  their  theme; 
And  music  wanders  in  the  wind 

That  lulls  a  morning  dream. 
And  there  are  angel  voices  heard. 

In  childhood's  frolic  hours, 
When  life  is  but  an  April  day. 

Of  sunshine  and  of  showers. 


There's  music  in  the  forest  leaves 
When  summer  winds  are  there, 

And  in  the  laugh  of  forest  girls 
That  braid  their  sunny  hair. 
9 


06 

The  first  wild  bird  that  drinks  the  dew, 

From  violets  of  the  spring, 
Has  music  in  his  song,  and  in 

The  fluttering  of  his  wing. 


There's  music  in  the  dash  of  waves 

When  the  swift  bark  cleaves  their  foam ; 
There's  music  heard  upon  her  deck. 

The  mariner's  song  of  home, 
When  moon  and  star  beams  smiling  meet 

At  midnight  on  the  sea — 
And  there  is  music  once  a  week 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 


But  the  music  of  young  thoughts  too  soon 

Is  faint,  and  dies  away, 
And  from  our  morning  dreams  we  wake 

To  curse  the  coming  day. 
And  childhood's  frolic  hours  are  brief, 

And  oft  in  after  years 
Their  memory  comes  to  chill  the  heart. 

And  dim  the  eye  with  tears. 


67 


To  day,  the  forest  leaves  are  green, 

They'll  wither  on  the  morrow. 
And  the  maiden's  laugh  be  chang'd  ere  long 

To  the  widow's  wail  of  sorrow. 
Come  with  the  winter  snows,  and  ask 

Where  are  the  forest  birds? 
The  answer  is  a  silent  one, 

More  eloquent  than  words. 


The  moonlight  music  of  the  waves 

In  storms  is  heard  no  more. 
When  the  living  lightning  mocks  the  wreck 

At  midnight  on  the  shore. 
And  the  mariner's  song  of  home  has  ceased, 

His  corse  is  on  the  sea — 
And  music  ceases  when  it  rains 

In  Scudder's  balcony. 


i 


